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Ah, the premature bridesmaid launch. I hate when that happens. Those bridesmaids are like horses are the gate. Sometimes they seem to almost run down the aisle. Good that your organist friend was thinking on his feet. Although the impromptu Wagner medley must have been interesting. What was he playing before he had to switch to the Wagner?

I have one day off after working six days straight, then I'm back in for another five gigs between now and January 1st. I got hit by three soup spoons yesterday when an overzealous waiter came speeding past the piano with a tray full of empty soup bowls (cream of chestnut, in case you're interested). Miraculously no stains were left on my dress (red velvet, if anyone cares, and anyway, I'm ready to burn that dress after a month of holiday parties).

The good news: I finally figured out an ending for Carol of the Bells.

_________________________
Robin Meloy Goldsbywww.goldsby.deAuthor of PIANO GIRL: A MemoirRHYTHM: A Novel RMG is a Steinway Artist

I'd love to attribute the quote, but my memory is failing as badly as a private piano seller's, when he tries to recall a piano's age, level of use, and amount of regular maintenance. Press such a person in your dictionary if you wish an example of how to use the word, 'unreliable' in a sentence.

But of course it could have been worse--- "Incoming: three full bowls of cream of chestnut, scalding hot. Jump for your life!"

That is code. It means, grab the wedding planner and use her as a shield.

And of course we care about your red velvet creation, Robin. And we're glad to know you're in such demand that you've all but slept in it for a month. But, who are we to take the bread out of the drycleaner's mouth? And after all, maintenance and replacement of costumes is deductible. Green velvet is also very Christmasy (if you wanted to add to your holiday trove), and then you can move on to deep purple for Epiphany. A nice rest for the eyes.

The whole of the spectrum belongs to the performing artist; you are fortunate you have the natural coloring to support whichever color you like to wear. We redheads have to be a little careful--- there are certain color schemes which are a little too daring--- and some people seem to have such terrible color judgment.

Well, catch your breath while you may. I don't really have any wedding news. There is a story and photo I gleaned from http://spaceweather.com , which shows a lady in a sleeveless wedding dress getting married under the Northern Lights. There's nothing wrong with the outfit as such, but all I could think of to say, was, "Put something on, dear."

A cashmere wrap, a bolero, a brocade blazer—anything! I freeze just thinking of that arctic bride. Of course I play in the land of drafts, so I am never without multiple layers.

Much as I adore velvet, it doesn't hold up well for those of us who make a living sitting on our behinds. The fabric gets a little pulled and worn in that one particular area. I have distinct derriere marks on the backside of all my velvet dresses. I'm thinking of writing to Travelsmith to ask them if they manufacture gowns for piano girls. Limited market, though.

"Incoming: three full bowls of cream of chestnut, scalding hot. Jump for your life!"—that made me laugh out loud, Clef. This same Brasserie serves fondue every Sunday night—not the cheese kind, but the boiling oil kind. Luckily I've never been asked to play during those hours. If so, I'd have to call the fire daddies and ask to borrow protective gear. Now there's an idea—flame-proof velvet for the pianist on a hazardous job. A little Kevlar wouldn't hurt, either.

And speaking of hazards, I have a weekend to get through, but New Year's Eve is just around the corner. The dinner where I am playing costs € 440 per person. Imagine. It's beautiful and gourmet, and (I have tasted this chef's amazing cooking) well worth it, but still. High-rent wine and champagne and dancing with the Upper Class (!) Trio until the wee hours add to the value of the evening. But still. It amazes me that we're always sold out on this night. There's even a waiting list.

This is the 12th year in a row I've played for New Year's Eve at the castle. I never ever get tired of the fashion show and the hoopla. My husband plays there with a jazz duo in another outlet (the Brasserie—home of the cream of chestnut soup—I'll have to warn him), so we get to go to work together, hang out on our breaks (they even serve us a nice dinner in the bar), and travel home together. We finish at 11:15, so we always arrive home in time to witness our crazy German neighbours shooting rockets and missiles off into the New Year's sky. Drunk people and rockets are not a good match, but so far there have been no tragedies. Our neighbours, who still, after all these years, have no clue what we do for a living, think we're nuts when we get out of the car at 11:55 (my husband in black-tie and hauling his double bass out of the car, me in a ball gown and heels that are too high) and hustle inside to avoid all the celebratory noise. I'm sure they think, "What's the point? All dressed up, sober, and no rockets or explosive devices."

So I'll see you all on the other side of 2012. May 2013 be healthy (above all), peaceful, and full of the music you love.

xoRMG

_________________________
Robin Meloy Goldsbywww.goldsby.deAuthor of PIANO GIRL: A MemoirRHYTHM: A Novel RMG is a Steinway Artist

... Our neighbours, who still, after all these years, have no clue what we do for a living, think we're nuts when we get out of the car at 11:55 (my husband in black-tie and hauling his double bass out of the car, me in a ball gown and heels that are too high) and hustle inside to avoid all the celebratory noise. I'm sure they think, "What's the point? All dressed up, sober, and no rockets or explosive devices."

So I'll see you all on the other side of 2012. May 2013 be healthy (above all), peaceful, and full of the music you love.

xoRMG

My last chore of the night -- every night, even after playing a formal concert with the orchestra -- is to walk the gigantic Poodle and the neurotic Lab. When I've been away at a concert for five hours, they seldom have the patience to let me change to jeans.

I'm sure the neighbors wonder about the guy wearing a tux at midnight to walk the crazy dogs...

Well, the club where I am tuning New Year's Eve is charging $60 a head. The club where I am going, where I was in charge in October, is a bit cheaper, but includes dinner. It will cost me more, since I am paying the difference between my friend's quartet and her quintet. Just a little non-deductible charity, to improve the lot of musicians.

One of the production managers at the club where I am tuning (where I have tuned for 30 years now) called New Year's Eve "partying with the amateurs." Whereas the other club is pretty much all amateurs, except we all lend whatever expertise we may have. Sometimes that is better than professionals.

Our colleague Apple (Mary) died this morning. I was shocked to find out how gravely ill she had become. I hope you will join me in sending prayers, good thoughts, positive vibes—whatever works for you—to her family.

Her stories here about playing for weddings, church services, and, yes, funerals, were a joy to read. I ask myself this: Who plays for the funeral organist when the funeral organist has left the cathedral? I hope someone puts a long-stemmed rose on her bench. I hope that organ stays silent for tomorrow's services. Sometimes, when the music ends so tragically and abruptly, silence is the only answer.

Apple was the ultimate Piano Girl. She loved music, she loved her job, she loved us.

I suggest each of us take a moment to play a song this evening in her memory. She'll hear us.

_________________________
Robin Meloy Goldsbywww.goldsby.deAuthor of PIANO GIRL: A MemoirRHYTHM: A Novel RMG is a Steinway Artist

Dear Friends,I think Apple might have liked this little essay. She always seemed to know a lot about things I'm just now figuring out. I can't stop thinking about her.

RMG

**

A Titanium Foot and a Long-Stemmed Rose: Lessons in the Art of Gratitude

The ball drops. Champagne flows. Regrets (I’ve had a few) are counted, and triumphs noted. Glasses clink, lips meet, smiles stretch the faces of children and drunks and musicians. We ring in the new, send in the clowns, bring on the dancers, bend the rules, launch the rockets, and catapult from one year to the next.Mr. G. (my dear husband) says that end of year retrospectives—The Best of the Best of 2012!—make him want to cry. The sad moments are sad, the happy ones are also sad, because they’re not really all that happy. I get what he’s saying. If you examine the highlights and lowlights of a year they turn into a reality show version of what actually counts. What counts isn’t what happens in a year. What counts is what you learn.

I learned a lot in 2012, lessons I wish I had learned a little sooner. Here are three that come to mind:

1. In June of 2012 watched my nineteen-year old son receive his German Abitur (an academic high school diploma that makes my American high school degree seem like a summer camp certificate). I sat with my husband, my parents (who were in town for the festivities), and my daughter. I listened to the music—featuring a faculty choir that sang a heart-wrenching version of “Shenandoah”—and smiled as two decades of parenthood flashed through my memory—a flickering diorama of music lessons, math and physics homework, Harry Potter marathons, fights (in two languages!) about computer games, philosophical discussions (of which he was capable at age five), flights back and forth to the USA, and drives—a million of them—to the school from which he was now graduating. After his name had been called, he received his diploma and a long-stemmed red rose, did a hip-hop victory-walk down a runway, found me in the audience, and bent over and handed me the rose. I never knew I was capable of projectile crying until that moment.

“Nineteen years of raising Curtis and you get a rose,” said Mr. G. “Well done. You deserve that.”

Lesson learned: a little bit of gratitude from your adult-child means way more than the thunderous applause of strangers. Way more.

2. After a three-month siege following foot surgery (a brand new titanium joint that will forever protect my right foot from the perils of pedaling a grand piano while wearing high heels), I found out what it’s like to be confined to a small bedroom, lose my ability to drive, and have my daily exercise limited to crutch-assisted trips to the bathroom. Thinking I would enjoy lolling about in bed and eating cinnamon toast prepared for me by my doting husband, I discovered that watching endless hours of PBS documentaries on Netflix—a fine activity when one has options to do other things—has certain disadvantages, most of which involve ibuprofen-induced nightmares about Bill Moyers.

I was thrilled when my surgeon (a skilled craftsman with the personality of a desk) told me I had graduated to a Frankenstein boot and could begin moving around a bit. The Frankenstein boot had a three-inch platform on it and threw my weight back onto my heel. It also threw my back out. I could walk very slowly, but I looked like Quasimodo. I couldn’t go to work. Even though the boot was black, Quasimodo in a black lace dress has never been a good look for a cocktail pianist. Not that I could play—the fingers were fine, but operating a sustain pedal with the left foot is best left to contortionists.

Still, at least I was moving. At least I didn’t have to go up and down four flights of steps on my butt. At least I could undress myself and take a shower without having my daughter monitoring me to make sure I didn’t slip and take a dive while conditioning my hair. Things were looking up.

That’s when the stomach virus hit me. It was one of those “pass the bucket” bugs—the kind that normally lasts twenty-four hours—but, because I was still recovering, it slapped me in the gut and flung me back to bed for another two weeks. And that’s when I began to feel like an old person. Enough. I hobbled to the dining room table and declared 2012 my Year of Health (an announcement that caused members of my family to laugh uncontrollably for about ten minutes). I put myself on a take-no-prisoners nutrition program, removed myself from negative influences, bailed on a couple of “friendships” that were draining my energy, and eliminated stressful work situations that weren’t either artistically satisfying or financially clever. I snapped back, stronger than ever. Okay, maybe not stronger, but smarter.

Lesson learned: Feeling old is a drag. Be good to yourself, keep moving, and take care of your feet.

3. In July of 2012, Julia G., age sixteen, took off on her long-awaited Summer Adventure, all of it paid for by an expatriate essay competition she had won in 2009 (when she was twelve) and a scholarship she received to attend the Eleanor Roosevelt Girls’ Leadership Worldwide Academy in Hyde Park, New York. (Note to parents of teenage girls: Check out this program—it’s wonderful!)

Julia had an ambitious plan. Before arriving at her dormitory at Vassar, Julia would spend a week in Louisville for a music workshop at the Jamey Aebersold School of Jazz at the University of Louisville. In between the Jazz Guys and Eleanor Roosevelt, Julia would hang out with her grandmother in Kentucky and her maternal grandparents in Western Pennsylvania. Following her graduation from Eleanor’s she would head to Manhattan to visit friends before heading back to Pennsylvania for more time with her grandparents. She’d fly back in Germany in time to start the eleventh grade. I was exhausted just looking at her itinerary.

My job, as chief travel coordinator for Julia G’s Summer Adventure was to put her on a flight at Düsseldorf Airport, then beg and bribe various family members and friends to transport her from one American location to another—a complicated operation that involved arranging planes, trains, and caravans; vegan picnics, sandwiches in the back seats of moving vehicles, meals in shopping mall food courts, tea at the Plaza and cocktails at the Waldorf; plush guest rooms, a Vassar dormitory without air-conditioning, and an inflatable mattress on the floor of a stylish Manhattan living room.

Her grandparents, her aunts, her uncles—all of them pitched in, spending hours behind the wheel to get her where she needed to go, on time and in style. Aunt Gail transported her from Louisville to Reynoldsburg, Ohio; Aunt Randita drove her from Ohio to Pittsburgh. My parents got her from Western Pennsylvania to Vassar. Our friends Carole and Emilio Delgado rented a car and drove from Manhattan to Hyde Park to attend her Eleanor Roosevelt graduation as ersatz parents (Carole, a big ER fan, was exactly the right person for this job, mainly because she had the perfect outfit). Carole and Emilio hosted Julia in Manhattan for a week she will never ever forget. My dear friend and fellow Piano Girl Robin Spielberg took the train from Baltimore, and hid behind a potted palm next to the “Eloise” portrait at the Plaza with her daughter Valerie, just so they could jump out and surprise Julia. She hadn’t seen them for five years. You can just imagine the fun they had at the tea party.

I’m astonished by what Julia learned this summer. Eleanor Roosevelt’s team of enthusiastic counselors, in between trips to the United Nations and sessions about the value of volunteering, taught Julia to “act like a lady and speak up.” Jamey Aebersold’s music workshop taught her about jazz theory and performance, and that “anyone can improvise,” especially a sixteen year old girl. But mainly, what Julia learned this summer is this: If she makes the effort to show up and do her part, she’ll have an eager support team waiting to transport her from one destination to another. If it takes a village, she has one of global proportions. If it takes a chariot, she has a golden coach with a band of willing drivers. If it takes love, she’s holding the winning ticket in the friends and family lottery.

Lesson learned: The kindness of strangers means a lot in this world, but when you want to get your daughter from a Starbuck’s in Düsseldorf to Peacock Alley in Manhattan (via Atlanta, Kentucky, Ohio, Poughkeepsie, and Pennsylvania)—and back again— you call the people on your A-List. Friends and family make one heck of a hauling squad—even if they’re an ocean away.

The New Year’s Eve glitter has clumped on the dance floor and the corpses of spent fireworks still litter the town square. Resolutions (not my own) own the month of January. I’m writing new music, launching my kids into adulthood, taking very good care of myself, and watching to see what 2013 will teach me. Slow down, hold on, let go, be grateful. That’s what I know for now, but these are last year’s lessons. I’m hoping 2013 will be the Year of Continuing Education.

***

_________________________
Robin Meloy Goldsbywww.goldsby.deAuthor of PIANO GIRL: A MemoirRHYTHM: A Novel RMG is a Steinway Artist

That's a beautiful essay, Robin, and I agree with you that apple* would have appreciated it. She struck me as a woman who learned early on what the important priorities in life are, and she packed more joy in her short life than many people pack into 100 years.

As a mom of a high school junior, I was particularly touched by your story about your son's graduation. What lies ahead for him?

Wear the good shoes, you'll never regret it. I am convinced a combination of high heels and sustain pedal caused my problem. I can't live without the sustain pedal, but I can indeed live without the heels.

My son is at university, studying International Business with a focus on Marketing Management. He is still playing the piano like crazy, but doesn't want to have music as a career. He knows too much about the downside of the music business, I think (the perils of having two musicians for parents).That said, he recently wrote a piece for me, which I recorded on Saturday—it's for my next release, in May of this year. We had a lot of fun at the studio.

I wonder what Apple's memorial service was like. I wonder if she selected the music ahead of time. I wonder how her family is coping. It is all just beyond sad. But you're right, Monica, she lived a very full life, and seemed to know instinctively which baskets to gather and how to fill them.

And I am certain she always wore perfect shoes.

_________________________
Robin Meloy Goldsbywww.goldsby.deAuthor of PIANO GIRL: A MemoirRHYTHM: A Novel RMG is a Steinway Artist

I believe, in fact, that we have a picture right here of her red pumps, her favorite for pedaling the organ in her home (picture of that, too).

Indeed, she is one of those surprising, unforgettable, and very lovable people. No need for me to re-tell her stories, as she did a perfect job of it on her own, and they are just a few pages back.

I've been listening to Walter Kraft's renderings of Bach organ, thinking of her view from the loft. It seems that there is something about this thread that let her unfold, and reveal all sorts of things that I have found it good to think about.

Oh, I remember that photo! And I remember her writing about how important it was for her to wear the perfect shoes.

We had the first wedding of the year at the castle on Saturday! Keeping with the international theme of last year, we had an Egyptian/Libyan wedding. Lots of bright colors and beaded dresses lighting up the January gloom. They had solo saxophone playing for two hours, then I came and played solo for two hours during dinner.Easy.

At the baton passing, I asked the sax player how it went. "Perfectly," he said. "They didn't listen, but they didn't complain, either." Which is kind of the way my part of the evening went.

Anyway, I think it's a good sign that it's still January and we already have a wedding under our belts.

_________________________
Robin Meloy Goldsbywww.goldsby.deAuthor of PIANO GIRL: A MemoirRHYTHM: A Novel RMG is a Steinway Artist

Tip: For those of you looking to book wedding gigs as solo pianists—if you're sitting at the piano (perhaps on your steady gig) when a future bride (and client) walks by, play anything at all from The Wonderful World of Amelie. In particular "Comptine d'un Autre Été, Apres Midi" seems to do the trick. I booked a September wedding last night with this piece and it occurred to me how often this has worked. Thank you, Yann Tiersen. Just hope the bride doesn't ask you for the title while you are playing—it's tough to spit out that title in French, especially if you're in the middle of the fast passage.

The dreaded Canon and the Gump theme also work, but not as well as the Amelie music.

"...I remember her writing about how important it was for her to wear the perfect shoes..."

As the saying goes, "Accessories make the ensemble."

Or break it.

For good or ill, I have no news or observations about weddings (although my own parents were married in this winter month, and made it to forty-nine-and-a-fraction years). And who can say, that the full and silver moon, riding low in tonight's deeply sapphire sky --- along with evening weather mild enough to walk the dogs, at least, for a short one, in a t-shirt--- well, who can say that it won't bear its fruit among the marriage-minded. Why, Valentine's Day will be here in a minute, and Mardi Gras in less than that.

And the world was young again... and they started making reservations, with the energy only the young can bring to it. Hall, honeymoon, hairburner; preacher, pre-nup, photographer; videographer, vows; bride's dress, baker, catering company; musicians of course; gravure, engraver, and where did you register. I believe I overlooked tux, but the alliteration is not seemly. And, as Apple's example reminds us, the proper pumps--- all-important.

I am reading a very good biography of Brahms, while listening to an overview of his works, from solo piano, to organ, to trios, quartets, quintets, and full orchestra. But I already know how this story ends: with NO wedding; not for him, anyway. I suspect the prospect of supporting the late Robert Schumann's brood, on a musician's earnings--- young and scarcely-known as he was at that point--- scared the life out of him; anyway, it scared him away from marrying Clara. Not everyone has Robin's gift of making it work out so gracefully.

I think of you, Robin, steaming up the windows... of the kitchen, making soup in January, as you listen to your daughter play the piano in the next room, as you wrote a few seasons ago. It still seems to me like a nice way to spend January. So there we are: moonlight and dogs, soup and daughter, biography and playlist. And my final word on the subject is: Intermezzo in B-flat minor, Opus 117, No. 2. For in the end, words can get you so far and that's it.

Oh, please PLEASE tell me you're working on another memoir, Robin, and the VBI incident will be in it. That story was priceless.

What's particularly funny is that just this very morning, while at the Y, I saw a clip on CNN touting the benefits of "whole body vibration machines," which alleges to offer a "ten minute no work workout." The more things change, the more they stay the same... but at least we don't call women "foxy" any more.

Thanks, Monica! Somehow I knew that story had your name on it. We are children of the eighties. Or young adults of the eighties. What a time. They call those whole body vibration devices POWER PLATES over here, a name that's just asking for ridicule.

My husband reminded me the other day that the male counterpart of "foxy" is "hunky."

I am indeed working on another book, but it's a collection of fictional short stories about musicians. I'm having so much fun working on it! When that's finished I will write the third (and final) book in the Piano Girl series. By that time I will be able to call it Piano Geezer.

In the meantime, it's music central around here—I'm recording a new release for May, called Magnolia. My son wrote one of the tracks. Naturally, it's one of those pieces that's really hard to play but needs to sound effortless. That one is in the can, thank goodness, and the next session is on Thursday of this week. I did a photo session yesterday, which, for those of us in our fifties, is a little traumatic. There's only so much you can so with spackle. At this point I say, let's go with the wrinkles. I've earned them. We'll see what comes out of it.

Back at the castle, we're in a bit of a lull. This is Karneval month here in Cologne, which means lots of grown men in kangaroo suits, tutus, and fright wigs, marching in parades and drinking beer. At the castle we have a Karneval-free zone, which means we're a respite for those not quite up to donning an eye patch and a pirate costume. It also means that we don't have a lot of business, since Karneval is intensely popular here.

We did have a wedding yesterday, but it started at noon and by the time I got there the guests were slightly disheveled and doing that thing that drunks do when they're trying not to act drunk. I felt like the room was in slow motion.

Clef, when I read your post, I was indeed making soup for my daughter, who was, at that moment, playing the piano. Red lentil with roasted peppers and sun-dried tomatoes. It was a very, uh, red soup. Our kitchen, living room, dining room, and piano area are all in the same big space—so the piano is quite close to where I cook. Very convenient for chopping basil and throwing out (unwelcome) tidbits of advice.

Hey, if any of you readers live in this part of Germany, I am performing my Piano Girl program at Steinway Haus in Düsseldorf on February 21. All English program! You can read all about it here.

Lol. I think it's important to be able to have fun while talking about our careers... and while doing our careers. You seem to have quite a sense of humor and I think that's a good thing. Thanks for brightening my day.

No weddings this weekend at the castle. It's Karneval season and if I see a bride on the street it is likely to be a man in a poofy white dress. I saw a troop of nurses out there today in white mini skirts and they were all guys in drag. I also spotted a group of panda bears, several Smurfs, and George and Martha Washington, both of whom were guys. The fun won't end until Tuesday. The castle should be safe, though—it's a Karneval-free zone.

_________________________
Robin Meloy Goldsbywww.goldsby.deAuthor of PIANO GIRL: A MemoirRHYTHM: A Novel RMG is a Steinway Artist

Gread story Robin! We have had critters on our roof, or under it... Every now and then pigeons would get in underneath the roof tiles and scitter about. Fortunately we were able to get all of them out and the entryways have now been netted off.... but it is a sound that still gives me the willies, just thinking about it.

Note: We did not serve pigeon cocktails.

_________________________XVIII-XXXVIIFollow your teacher's instructions and practice wisely/much, and you'll soon wonder how you ever found it hard. BobPicklePerformance anxiety: make it part of your daily routine and deal with it...Cope! zrtf90

There is rat poison. Passive-aggressive, but for once I can get along with it. Packaged into its own little plastic house, so nothing but a rat can get into it (well, maybe a squirrel). (Regrettable collateral damage, but war is heck.)

"But Your Honor, we didn't know it was a protected species until it was too late."

We had a roof rat, which made an incredible mess in the kitchen, and came lethally close to the piano. Then we had an exterminator, and now the house is hardened from crawl space to roof gable vents with extra-heavy-duty galvanized hardware cloth. The daughter who thinks invaders should be left unmolested will sing a different tune after she has to wash and sterilize (or throw away, and then re-purchase) every object in the kitchen, and scrub all the shelves and drawers with scalding-hot disinfectant--- and don't forget behind the stove. She can also pay the exterminator's bill, which is not cheap.

It is a convincer, for the most vegetarian among us. Once a girl loses her innocence about rats, mosquitoes, ticks, crab lice, termites, flies in the kitchen, flesh-eating bacteria, and the heartworms the dogs get if you don't prevent it... well, I'm just saying, there's a boundary.

February 10, 1840 – Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom marries Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. Great-great-great-grandparents of the new heir-apparent, still in utero.

A little figleaf, lest we lose the thread altogether.

I enjoyed your story, Robin. The moral: let sleeping spouses lie. I certainly live by it myself.

What I do not like is the raccoons using our roof as their potty. They may look cute, but I keep away from them, since they can be dangerous. A former neighbor's mother lost a fingertip to one that came in the cat door.

For some reason we do not have raccoons in this part of Germany. But we evidently have everything else. While I was writing that essay the Green Acres theme song kept running through my brain—"I so adore a penthouse view—dahling I love you but give me Park Avenue."

Then again, in New York City there are many other pests, one hardly misses the weasels.

I've got my red dress ready to go for the annual castle VD Dinner on the 14th. I couldn't make it last year because I was on crutches and wearing a Frankenstein boot, but this year my pedal foot is healthy and ready to sustain away. I even have red shoes for the occasion.

Hopefully there will be a few marriage proposals to report.

_________________________
Robin Meloy Goldsbywww.goldsby.deAuthor of PIANO GIRL: A MemoirRHYTHM: A Novel RMG is a Steinway Artist

Clef, the daughter in question has come to her senses. The weasel episode happened some years ago. She is older now and has snapped out of her pre-adolescent belief that all critters are our friends. This could have something to do with her being bitten by a pit bull last year. But that's another story for another time!

Oh boy, just booked a March wedding playing for a Princess from Dubai. There is bound to be a tale or two there.

_________________________
Robin Meloy Goldsbywww.goldsby.deAuthor of PIANO GIRL: A MemoirRHYTHM: A Novel RMG is a Steinway Artist

Yet. I've seen them on the science shows. They've been spreading through Germany.

About 8 feet from my desk, or maybe about 2.5 meters for the European members, is a framed photo of me holding one of the dreaded Marders. Er, just looked it up. Singular is Marder, plural is also Marder. Go figure.

Most Americans who live in Germany long enough eventually have a car that won't start because a Marder ate the ignition wires, or won't stop because it ate the brake lines. But nobody I knew, American or German, had actually seen one. So when I found a reasonably intact road kill I took a photo. It became one of my hobbies. I now also have photos of myself holding a roadkill badger, fox, squirrel, shrew, snake, beaver, hedgehog, etc. I pick them up, get a picture, and put them back down so the nutrients return to the same ecosystem. When in Germany it's wise not to kill anything unnecessarily; the German anticruelty laws apply to all vertebrates, and the penalty is a two year prison term.